Perfectly Human
by wordspank
Summary: Angel gets a pleasant visit from Buffy, he and Spike want perfect hair, and very strongly bangel-centric. Angel also contemplates being human for a bit.


Perfectly Human  
PG  
A/N: A bangel fic (of course, not without Spuffy undertones) that's for Jelaine, because she hates the pairing so.

Angel sometimes still wonders about his slayer's 'cookie' status. With no more than Gunn and Spike by his side doing the duty of dusting the evil, the vamp can't help but think about how much he really misses her. It may be the lack of oestrogen that's twisting his mind into sleepless frenzy, but he never bothered to think too much about it, despite the entire fold of time within his hands.

On this night, Angel sits on a little chair in the side of the small room he's gotten himself, drinking bad coffee and staring at polished sterling that doesn't reflect his physical body. He supposes that this kind of life is way better than having to worry about the fate of the earth and the emergence of some hell god. The people that turn a blind eye to this and decide to feel that their lives are a total bore don't really realise how much it's valued to a fighter. Who'd want to have demon grime in their hair every night anyway?

There is the noisy whirr from beyond his wall. Spike lives in the room next to his. The blonde vampire is always making some kind of ruckus next door, and this week it's Klimts and Van Goghs that he's filling the whitewashed walls with. He's already given up telling his childe, "Knock it off!" but Angel figured out long ago that he wouldn't be sleeping even if he were in the cold black coat of silence anyway.

He pushes his own nose closer to a pewter letter opener, squinting at the slanted, distorted image of everything behind him.

Nope, still a vampire.

It's strange, because every time his eyes are drawn onto reflective surfaces, he hopes that somehow he manages to see himself with the same broody expression everyone complains about. Angel remembers that it had only been five years ago since he had seen how he looked like in sunlight, looking at himself in the dusty pane of a window. He hates that it never really happened, that he was the only one to recall it. The memory that never was somehow always flashed sometime and bit him right in the ass, ever so often when he was in company of Cordelia, or Wesley, or Fred.

Tonight, he actually misses the warmth of sunshine and the taste of Cookie Dough Fudge Mint Chip ice cream. If he were to relive that now, all he'd become is a sticky clump of sweet dust. But what Angel yearns most is the serenity he gets when he's next to his slayer, arm curled around one of her slender shoulders, toes free and wriggling in soft midnight air. Only Buffy (the Buffy that was with him on the fateful day his heart beat again) knows that he loves moving the toes of his feet whenever he's strangely satisfied or gleefully relaxed; things he should never be when he has a soul.

So here he is, lonely and guilty, coffee drying his rough tongue and still lacking a reflection. Almost human, he feels, but not quite. Spike would understand.

Feeling horribly tired of his own broodiness, the vampire sets the three-quarter empty cup on the matching saucer and grasps the collar of his faithful duster. He may not feel like he's cleaned his slate, but at least hunting would make him feel better.

By the time Angel sets one foot out the door, he realises that Spike has stopped drilling holes in the wall. Might as well take him.

Before the back of his bent finger can hit the thin teak, the peroxide blonde opens the door, tilts his head and wonders for a moment, before saying, "Never thought you'd ask."

Spike claps his hands, rubbing them against each other to clear the white precipitate off his palms. Some falls on the black of his shirt, but since he's going to kill some demons, he doesn't care how he really looks. Except for his hair. He must have perfect hair.

Angel understands the need for perfect hair. Because one day, he may come across his slayer and he wouldn't want to be caught with hair that was less than perfect, that stuck out in the wrong places and drooped limply. He supposes Spike thinks the same way, but Angel doesn't really know whose heart Spike is for anymore. Everyone only loves Buffy because she's one of a kind, sweet and selfless and generous. No one will love her like Angel does, not even Spike. He wants her to be happy though, so even if he can't stop loving her, he'll let another man sweep her off her feet if it makes her truly happy.

"Alright, let's hunt, Peaches," the younger vamp nods, and moves off first, because he's always eager for violence besides the soul. Angel just follows.

* * *

There were, quite sadly, only three vamps that they had found. They were playing cards, seated around a table in the centre of a shabby, abandoned warehouse. Spike had knocked, minding his manners, then temporarily boxed the lights out of the one who answered. He liked to do that. Angel moved in, expressionless.

Now the dark-haired vampire is pounding the third opponent with balled fists, the one wearing the Iron Maiden shirt. He is particularly strong, but Angel is not intimidated. If Spike weren't having so much fun torturing the second vamp with a sharp, broken leg of a chair, he'd be taking this one on for sure, just to add a little air to his ego.  
With a roar, the vamp Angel is fighting pushes him back and decks him in the cheek. The fangs extend and the eyes glow feral yellow, game face disfiguring his human planes. What means, "Uh oh" for the enemy is a triumphant, "Yay!" for Angel, who throws the vamp across the room and accidentally onto Spike whom he could not see from where he had been standing.

"But you're so small," is the excuse he wants to make, but he knows Spike will take it the wrong way and get them into a big quarrel. In the end, Spike unintentionally stabs the wooden weapon into his victim, sending him to dusty oblivion whilst the other tumbles onto the floor.

"Aw, you poofter, I almost made him beg."

"Do you have a soul or not?" is his reply, and then he grabs the broken chair leg and finishes off the Iron Maiden fan.

Spike shrugs and looks towards the groaning host who had answered the door. "Not right now, no."

Angel also shrugs, walking past his childe and leaving him be. A scream rings out in the fresh night, but a good scream because it's evil that's suffering against the chokehold of good.

He decides to make his way to the old gymnasium nearby and smell the concrete fights from behind the doors. Slayers get trained there, but everyone pretty much knows the goodness and humanity seeping through his soulful pores to even think of staking him. Spike, on the other hand, usually needs a second looking at before getting the stamp of approval.

Angel stands under a streetlamp, dust and pollution from the air settling in his hair and on his duster. He likes to listen to the violent cries of the slayers training; it reminds him of the training sessions that he used to have with his slayer long ago.

Which leads him to great big reminders of when they made love only too long ago. The no-no thoughts just plague him from then on for about six minutes or so, and they may be six minutes a little too long. Angel clears his throat for nothing and nobody to hear, and takes one hand out of hiding from his pocket to place on the warmer metal of lamp.

"Having a little trouble catching your breath now? I thought vampires didn't have age-related health problems."

The dark-haired male is clearly startled at the feminine voice that brings back the too familiar feeling of slight joy to his bones. Angel takes his hand off the body of the streetlight and addresses her as calmly as he can. "Buffy."

Now that the acknowledgement of presence is already administered, the main problem begins. He does not know what to say. But at least his hair is still nice and perfect, holding together with ridiculously expensive clay.

His slayer takes time to soak in the surroundings. "Can't say I missed this place. Never stayed in it long." She notices the training facility and eyes it carefully. "You looking out for all the Chosen Ones now?"

He doesn't want to seem like he's too heroic, and at the same time he doesn't want to scare off any potential that they might have already been brewing in their midst. "No." _Very good, Angel, keep conversation like that and I'm sure she'll be falling into your arms in no time,_ he scolds himself helplessly.

"Well." Her hair is a little less blonde now and a little browner. She's still the same petite girl he's known and missed, though she's gained a little weight, all for the better. Through the years he's been watching her shed unnecessary pounds as she grew, a consequence to what Hellmouth stress made her susceptible to. "How Iis/I life in the grand smoky city of Los Angeles?"

"Nothing more grand than a barrel of fun monkeys." He does not even know where that came from. He quickly recovers from possible embarrassment by adding, "It's the same old demon congregational centre, except the faithful visitors are forfeiting their passes these days."

"Slayer central isn't quite the evil magnet I imagined it to be, then." Buffy moves closer to him. "Really, Angel. How have you been?"

"Coping." He sighs and looks around, then draws his eyes to hers with a smile. "Nothing I can't handle by myself." Angel realises he sounds too distant and unwelcoming.

The slayer nods in understanding. "Not in a conversational mood, I see."

"Why are you here, Buffy?"

Straight to the point, right to the chase.

She ponders her answer for a moment. "I have come to invite you to my wedding."

He isn't sure he's ever felt his eyes so big and dry before. Any remnants of a smile are washed out by a big worrisome furrowing of brows and slight downward curve of mouth. She's a cookie for someone else.

She nods, looking around first, then meets his eyes. "And I would do anything to capture that moment again." The girl giggles insanely. "You're such a gullible thing, you know that?"

"I kinda feel violated," he replies, but is very relieved she's only pulling his leg. Otherwise he'd certainly pulling off more than his leg. Maybe even tear off an arm or something. Sure, he'd said he'd be happy for her, but he wouldn't be stupid enough to actually believe himself.

"I came here," Buffy smiles, "for you."

Angel can't help but let half a smile creep across his features. _Cookies for me._

"And I was just thinking about you," he admits honestly, unabashed and unashamed.

"Ah."

Without warning, Buffy steps up to him and pulls Angel in for the classic kiss, clichéd but oh-so-welcome in any of his brain's books. Her lips are still as he remembers them, soft, glossed and to be yearned for, as always. Her kisses say, "I've missed you," without saying it, and he takes his time re-exploring what he hasn't tasted in quite a while. At an exact moment, they both pull their mouths away from each other. Angel hasn't really found himself so contented without having to worry about losing his soul before.

"You have _definitely_ not been kissing girls lately." She pauses, reviewing her own words. "You haven't been kissing any non-girls, right?"

"Nobody, and nothing," Angel reassures. And claims her lips once again, this time a little hungrier than he intended. Absence of love really makes the dead heart grow strangely over-excited.

He releases her reluctantly from his embrace when she separates from him. "Easy there, tiger. No happy just yet."

Just then, Spike decides it's time to exit the building after he's staked the baddies. He skips in an unconventional manner and stops short when he sees the lady bathed in soft orange glow. "Buffy."

Angel suddenly gets horribly apprehensive inside about his childe being around. It smells like the Peroxider's decided to redefine whom his heart is for again, and the dark-haired champ is feeling more than a little threatened.

But Buffy passes him a knowing glance and tries to keep a grin from breaking. _Cookies, for you, Angel._ "Spike," she greets. Angel is not surprised that the both he and Spike are reduced to stupid babbling schoolboys confronted by their teenage hormone-charged adoration. Souled centuries-old vampires aren't quite the champions when you see them piecing together incoherent sentences in front of Buffy Summers. "We'll all talk soon," she hints at her departure.

"Drop by at the apartment on Bayhart, will you pet?"

She just smiles and turns her back on two once-again smitten good-guy vamps, striding off like a goddess in disguise.

* * *

Angel's girl has already made it clear to him that _always_ means _forever._ The reassurance, however, does not make it easier for him to think about how perhaps she may decide to up and run away with Spike. Until the younger vampire pops over and gets it explained to in detail by Buffy that she's decided on whom she really wants. Of course, Spike is unsettled and displeased about the fact that his sire's being picked over him, but his mentality runs along the same lines as Angel initially said before; he's happy if she's happy, and in his case, it's alright for Spike to be happy because his soul is not a curse. Angel is in awe of why she has picked him over everyone else.

It's pleasant as he sits alone in his bed. Buffy has gone to live with a relative along with Dawn in L.A, and he's just left with this great sense of warmth she's brought to him.

There could always be a way to fix his soul in place. He just needed time. Then, he could kiss her once again without having to worry about going all fanged again.

Angel holds up the teaspoon he has at eye level. He still has no reflection, no indication of what he's always hoped to one day have, that is, the complete abolishment of his alter ego Angelus. That maybe someday he could see himself in a mirror and have some sort of hope to pick up on.

But he doesn't need that anymore. He doesn't need to be seen in silver or gold or pewter, because he's just simply satisfied with what he has now.

He doesn't need a reflection anymore, not when all Buffy needs is to see him.

And he's just going to give her that.


End file.
